


Sometimes We Just Need to Dance

by erisgregory



Series: Everything Carries Me to You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Guilt, John Watson Needs A Hug, M/M, Mary Dies, Parentlock, Pretty much that's it, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Survivor Guilt, They dance, but we don't really talk about it, dancing and thinking but not too much, ish, john is VERY SAD, or he will be, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erisgregory/pseuds/erisgregory
Summary: John won't let anyone take the baby from him until one night when he passes out from lack of sleep and wakes to find that someone has taken the decision (and the baby) out of his hands. He's surprisingly okay with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first in a series of Parentlock fics I'm planning. This is an introduction of sorts that gets everyone up to date on Mary's passing, the new baby, and where John is at emotionally. There isn't any relationship here, but I hope you can feel the late night, exhausted, sleepy romance I tried to weave into it. This is a starting point. John has to grieve, though I should point out he's not sad because he was in love with Mary, so if that will upset you please skip this. Also please mind the ratings as I expect them to go up. I will rate and warn for each new circumstance.

John Watson has been back at 221B Baker Street for exactly one week. He’s not been into work. He’s not been down the stairs. He’s skipped showers and meals, and too often the only sleep he gets is when the baby falls asleep here and there after screaming herself hoarse.

He’s a doctor. He knows better. But Emmaline, Emma, doesn’t know anything. None of this is her fault. She doesn’t know why her mom isn’t there. She doesn’t know why her dad is so beside himself. She didn’t choose to be brought into this world under such dire circumstances and it isn’t her fault she had to be born by emergency c-section after her mother was shot. After her mother was killed.

It isn’t her fault that she senses all of this somehow and responds to it the only way she knows how, by screaming her discontent every day since they left the hospital.

Everyone tries to help.

Mrs. Hudson makes a fairly frightening amount of tea that John never drinks. Greg brings gifts from the Yard that John doesn’t open. Molly offers to help however John needs, but still John refuses to hand the baby over to anyone. This is his responsibility now. He is all his daughter has now in the world and one day soon he’s going to have to get cleaned up, take them both out into the world, and figure out what comes next. Right now though, they just have to survive this for however long it takes. Emma isn’t ready for the world and neither is John.

Sherlock never presses. Actually he did once, but that was just to get John to move back in, temporarily, while he figured himself out. After that he’d been quiet. Lurking, but never intruding. John was so thankful for that. He couldn’t talk about it right now anyway. He couldn’t even think about what kind of life he had to offer this tiny human that was now his alone to protect and care for.

One week. The endless cycle of trying to get the baby to finish just one full feeding, coaxing her to burp so as not to cause any more colic, changing her, rocking, patting, humming to her, all the while trying not to lose his mind while she wails in his ear. It’s been a long week. Maybe the longest of his life. He can’t remember if he ate today. He doesn’t feel hungry. He can’t even feel the grief he knows he should feel for Mary. He didn’t love her, hadn’t for a while, but by god they had been it it together and now he feels almost nothing. He’s hollowed out and empty. 

What he feels is exhausted. And guilty. Emma deserves better than he’s doing but he doesn’t know how to drag himself back out of this slump.

It should be no surprise then when he realizes he’s fallen asleep in the chair while Emma grabs a few minutes of rest. What is a surprise is that the baby isn’t in his arms anymore.

He feels a moment of panic. Did he drop her? But then he wakes up a little more to the sound of violin music and looks over to find Sherlock with the baby in the middle of the room. He’s dancing with her, her sleeping form held close on his shoulder as they sway gently back and forth. John sits himself up, he’s going to retrieve her. He has to. He can’t just sleep on the job, but Sherlock turns just at that moment and smiles at him.

It’s such a soft innocent look on his face, a look of wonderment or awe and it stops John from moving another inch.

“I’m sorry, I--”

“She loves the violin! She wasn’t at all impressed with piano, but she fell right to sleep once I turned this on.” Sherlock’s voice is low, so as not to disturb Emma, but full of pure joy all the same.

“How long was I out?” John wondered.

“It’s been approximately three hours.” Sherlock answered, glancing at the clock.

John scrubbed his hand over his face. “You’ve been dancing for three hours?” 

“No. We looked out the window for a while and watched some youtube videos, but then she started to get fussy again. The specialists all agree that music can be very relaxing to newborns, and that gentle rocking may soothe colic so I thought this was the best of both. She’s been sleeping peacefully ever since.” Sherlock turned so John could see her little face where it lay on his shoulder.

“You should have woken me up.” John could feel the guilt rising again.

“John, I’ve done my best to give you space, but you’re completely worn out. You have to get some sleep so you can take care of Emma. You’re a doctor. You know I’m right.” All of this was said very firmly. Sherlock swayed in front of him, eyebrows raised, waiting for John’s response.

He wanted to argue, but really, he didn’t have much to stand on. The thing was, even though Sherlock was right, John still felt like he had to somehow do the work of two parents, because he didn’t have a choice.

“Don’t argue with me. I can see you trying to come up with something to say, but don’t. Just come here.” Sherlock reached his hand out for John and helped pull him to his feet.

“I’ll teach you what I’ve learned she likes, then you can do it for her when you need to.” He offered.

John feels like he’s still asleep, dreaming maybe, numb either way. He is exhausted, that much is true, and he can see the wisdom of this. Even though he wants to feel the guilt on a deeper level, he can’t seem to muster it. Not while Sherlock looks so pleased with himself and little Emma. So he takes Sherlock’s hand and comes closer, steps into Sherlock’s loose one armed embrace. And he sways. At first it feels foolish. His sleep deprived brain has trouble finding the rhythm, but Sherlock takes over and controls him through the arm around his waist. John doesn’t think about that, he doesn’t need to. He just sways.

Emma is like a tiny angel sleeping there on Sherlock’s shoulder. John lays one hand on Sherlock’s free shoulder and the other he places ever so softly on Emma’s back, above Sherlock’s hand. It feels good to watch her sleep. Her little mouth is open slightly, cheeks rosy in sleep. What little hair she has is obscured by the teensy pink cap on her head, but John knows it like he knows every other detail of her. She’s perfect. 

His eyes travel up and he’s surprised for some reason to find Sherlock looking back at him. They’re close. Of course they're close, they’re dancing, but somehow John hadn’t been paying attention. He finds he doesn’t mind. After all, it’s not the first time Sherlock’s taught him to dance. Only the addition of little Emma makes it much different. That and the hour. John spares a glance for his watch. Four AM. It’s okay, though. All of this is, well, more than okay, he decides. Because he trusts Sherlock. Of course he does.

Sherlock is watching him, probably reading all of his thoughts as they flit across his face. He must look a mess, but Sherlock is just calmly waiting, watching, rocking the three of them to the slow beat of the violin music.

“Thank you.” John says. He doesn’t expect it to come out so hoarse, so full of emotion. Sherlock’s not judging him, he’s just blinking.

“Of course, John. I want to help. I hope you’ll let me help from now on.” He whispers back.

John finds he can’t speak so he nods, swallows around the lump forming in his throat. This is not the time to get emotional. Thankfully the music and the soothing warmth of Sherlock and Emma so close to him settle him back down soon enough.

“You’re brilliant, figuring this out,” John tells him as soon as he finds his voice.

“Sometimes babies just need to dance, John. Sometimes we all just need to dance.” Sherlock tells him seriously.

John can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. He feels lighter somehow, and at the same time, grounded. He can feel the floor under his feet and it feels like home. He can feel the soft warmth of Emma and her tiny little breaths and he knows they are where they need to stay.

“Can we stay?” John blurts the question without thought.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Sherlock tells him.  
Together the three of them dance until nearly dawn before it’s time to feed the baby. Later John won’t remember the names of the songs Sherlock told him, but he’ll never forget the feeling of safety and sureness and pure warmth. 

He leaves the baby with Mrs. Hudson that morning and let’s Sherlock trundle him off to bed where he sleeps a solid ten hours before resurfacing and deciding it was time to start taking care of himself. For Emma. And for Sherlock.


End file.
